Monthly Archives: May 2013

Oatmeal, for something new and completely different. Every day when hiking I have the same breakfast of four packets of oatmeal and cold water, the combination of flavors irrelevant. I figure a dog never varies their breakfast, why should I?

The hike of four miles to the first water stop warmed me up to the hole in my mouth. As I filled my water jug in the stream, I had the misfortune to find a pair of sunglasses. Trail etiquette demands that I make a solid effort to track down the owner –which means carrying them. The bane of all hikers is new weight. Now I had bane. Slack is an ace at tracking down owners of items he has found on the trail. Currently he is batting five for six. All day I picked up my pace trying to track down hikers in order to return the misplaced shades. All to no avail. No one claimed them.

The infamous poodle dog bush

The trail today cut through the dreaded poodle bush territory. Poodle bush springs up after a fire has devastated a forest. Like all members of the poodle family its bite is worse than its bark. If you brush up against it, symptoms similar to severe poison oak haunt you for about two weeks. In this section poodle bush crowds the path. The spasmodic dance to avoid its touch is both comical and grim.

All day my right knee nagged at me. This was not helped by an incident that took place in late afternoon. As I came around a bend, a hand reached up and grabbed my right ankle. Ass over teakettle I went. Bits and pieces flying everywhere. Orbit, who was eight feet in front of me, serenely oblivious to my screams because her headphones were in. It was worthy of the Keystone Cops. As I sat up from my cloud of dust, I resolved to stop thinking and start looking out for evil grabbers.

Desert from 9,000 feet near summit of Baden Powell

1,500 year old pine at 9,000 feet

A long descent brought me to an uncharismatic saddle camp next to a fire station. The fire station appears obsolete, as the forest has already burned down. But who am I to question such things?

The moon is full and the dew heavy. Everyone has put up their tents except me. I opt for laziness, rub my lucky tooth in the hopes that it is not too damp tonight and head for slumber land.

400-mile mark commemorated!

Steve Halteman
On the Pacific Crest Trail
Hiking the PCT for the Kids of Escuela Verde

The smell of fresh scones yanked me from under the ping-pong table. Packed up and headed into town for a bulk-up breakfast. The walk was long, but the hitch proved easy and lovely, a 1956 Willys Sedan with the original motor. Ate like the starved and then tried thumb work back to the trailhead. The wait was 22 seconds and well worth it, a cherry red 1954 pickup so near to my truck, a 1951 GMC. Rode to the trailhead in the back, grinning all the way.

Hitching in the ’54 GMC

Arriving at the trailhead

Me in action.

Me not in action.

The trail proceeded in its customary gain and loss personality. Sometimes a jaunt to the top to have a chat with the oracle, sometimes to the valley to talk with their counterpart. Coyote scat covered the trail indicating territory. The climbs grew hot as noon passed. The old adage confirmed – only mad dogs, Englishmen and PCT thru hikers go out in the midday sun. At each summit a new panorama presented, and the endorphins came rushing back. Times like those make you feel too big for your skin.

Pinecone flood

I continue to be amazed at the lack of population in Southern California once one is removed from the coast. Reminds me of the population in Egypt clustered around the Nile.

Young Yucca

The trail crisscrossed the Angeles National Highway several times until being cutoff completely by a Park Service edict. Seems yet another toad was threatened so a four-mile section of the PCT was closed. Two options presented. A 17-mile alternate trail to cover those four miles or a three-mile road walk. Having taken our sanity pills that morning we hit the road. Traffic was light, so the spat factor was minimal. Shortly we arrived at an organized campground and set up for the night, once again a cowboy camp. In reality I have set up the tarp a total of three times in 20 nights.

Before long, a desire for a beer was voiced. On cue, Mike and Norbert, two trail angels from LA, pulled up and shouted, “Any thru hikers here in the mood for a beer?” Multiple affirmations were simultaneous. A huge cooler was drug out full of beer, soda and snacks. Then they were off to the forest to gather wood for a fire. The night went from a cold one, shoveling down couscous, to beer around a roaring fire.

The conversation rolled on until the angels had to return to Angeles. My guess is Mike would have joined the trek northward in a short second if he could have escaped the grasping embrace of Capitalism.

I tried to imagine Mike and Norbert’s mindset. “Hey, it’s Wednesday night. Let’s stock an ice chest, drive an hour out to Angeles National Forest, track down some thru hikers, and give it to them.” Fine specimens of humanity.

Part of the goodies left were a box of Mike and Ike candies, which are basically chewable globs. Irresistible. As I masticated a glob of five, I bit into a rock. Too lazy to separate the rock, I tried to swallow the glob whole. The dimension of my throat compared with the dimension of the glob prevented this. This was fortuitous, for further exploration informed me that the rock was a tooth and trying to place it back where it belonged, in the dark, after a couple of beers, made me sleepy. So I put the tooth in my pocket, lay down and dreamt of wilderness dentists.

Steve Halteman
On the Pacific Crest Trail
Hiking the PCT for the Kids of Escuela Verde

Awoke to pressure. Orbit has been exploring her competitive side. Initially a sweet natured but very strong hiker, she has evolved into a cutthroat competitor. The presence of any hiker, any where in front of her, lights a fire that can only be quenched by passage. Once she is well in front, of the fallen hiker, la bliss sets in and the umbrella unfurls signifying yet another successful pursuit and take down. It is then, and only then, that she returns to her calm, enigmatic Mary Poppins demeanor. Recently she asked me about running marathons. God help the Kenyans.

Orbit serene

Thus the pressure. A group of five unknowing hikers was four miles ahead. The chase was on, but being late out of camp, I missed the blood on the trail. Climbed and climbed some more, alone to my thoughts. By afternoon 6,000 ft had been gained, the curves of the 15 Freeway but a snake on the horizon. Finally the trail crested, but decided to follow the curve of a ski resort rather then proceed directly to the goal, the goal being the town of Wrightwood and resupply.

Freeway snake

Eventually, after a couple of hours spent exploring various ski lift combinations, we arrived at a highway where it was possible to hitch into Wrightwood. Out of water, thirsty, but saved by a trail angel who left tangerines on a rock, we waited for a ride. Soon, a gentleman pulled over, his story learned during the eight miles into town.

He joined the Air Force in 1943 and flew fighter planes during WWII and Korea. During WWII he was with the Ninth Air Force in Europe. Specifically, he flew the Republic P47 Thunderbolt. Engaging in multiple dogfights, he shot down one Messerschmidt Bf 109 (me 109) and two Focke-Wulf fighter planes.

Republic P 47D

Focke-Wulf

me 109

During the Battle of the Bulge, he was shot down by German antiaircraft fire. Behind enemy lines during winter, he made his way into the encircled town of Bastogne, which was then held by the American 101st Airborne. His quote, “Son, you’d be surprised at what you will do to survive.” He is 93 years old and still look like he would be just fine in a cockpit.

Wrightwood was pizza and beer with the London Marathon on the tube followed by a restock in the supermarket. While sitting outside, a gentleman approached and asked if we needed a roof. That is how we ended up at Jeff’s, a model example of a Christian gentleman. In all, seven hikers shared his loft. We wandered through his house sharing his hospitality, hanging out with his kids, using his kitchen, laundry and bathroom. Great conversations and better than average pingpong were also on the agenda. Even his dogs warmed up to all the new smells. Such human kindness. Though the competitive snoring did force me into the basement where I found refuge under the ping-pong table. Jeff is two weeks away from retiring from a 30-year teaching gig. I hope every moment of that retirement is as good to him as he was to us.

Steve Halteman
On the Pacific Crest Trail
Hiking the PCT for the Kids of Escuela Verde

Restaurant geography dictates. It was 25 miles to the Del Taco at El Cajon Pass.
Some one else preparing your food is mile motivation. Thus the goal was set. Unfortunately, there was nowhere to camp in the vicinity of Del Taco and its freeway overpass. The first water cache was yet another 5 miles on. Mathematically, a 30 mile day. The formula as follows: walking 3 mph for 10 hours plus 2 hours for breaks / food / water = 12 hours for 30 miles = multiple burritos and strawberry milkshakes. Which is just another way of saying we started early. You can’t really walk much faster than 3 mph with a backpack, so the way to increase miles in any given day is to walk longer hours. At 6 AM the crunch of gravel was being broadcast.

The trail climbed and fell based on the dictates of geography. At one point, it passed the base of Silverwood Lake Dam, then it rose to give the lake itself a hug. Here I learned that the body of the missing hiker had been found. The police were questioning the veracity of her hiking partner’s statements. For the sake of our bus friend, I hope her father is cleared.

The path continued to meander in the general direction of Taco Haven. At times the 15 Freeway would make a teasing appearance, but the path appeared uninterested in it as a direct destination nor in my visions of Latin cuisine. Thus it went here and there, randomly picking a hill to climb and descend, with me as a hostage to its whims.

Finally the path got bored and gave me to Del Taco, where I got busy. In order: one large strawberry milkshake, 1 liter of Gatorade, 2 liters of ice water, one beef taco, one fish taco, one nacho grande chicken burrito, one liter of Mountain Dew and candy bars for desert. The chill of air conditioning, our first in 18 days, finally chased us out, and we resumed our northerly direction.

Slack, Orbit and Red Beard at the El Cajon overpass, fleeing Del Taco

A conversation took place in which I was asked, “Do you think you will make it to Canada?” My answer, “Yes, unless something unforeseen happens,” the unforeseen being unworthy of examination because it lays in the future with its train wrecker of possibilities. I’ve grown tired of the future. It’s too heavy for my backpack. Right not I’m satisfied with the immediacy of the hiking day. Where is the next water? What mile are we at? And so on. The future will show up with all its unforseens whether I invite it or not. So why waste time juggling it in my mind before hand?

Home for the night

Full of calories, we arrived at a water cache located in a dry wash replete with lawn furniture and the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue. Predictability doesn’t seem to be a PCT strong suit. And so, I write at the kitchen table, with yucca plants casting moonshadows over my paper and kangaroo rates as distractions. Time to call it for what it was, a perfect day on the PCT, with all its unforseens now memories.

Sun devouring a hiking Red Beard

Steve Halteman
On the Pacific Crest Trail
Hiking the PCT for the Kids of Escuela Verde

Woke up cold. Moved out chasing the warmth of the sun. Smiled when I found it. The oatmeal kicked in and my pace quickened. I often imagine stevedores, like on the Titanic, inside my body. Shoveling coal into the boilers, quickly or slowly, depending on my need for speed. It’s a fun image.

As I made my way down the path, I hoped Stupid and Dumbass would not mistake me for game and do something unpleasant with their crossbows. Yesterday, when they passed our camp, S&D told of lunch. Two eight inch trout and stinging nettle salad. I love this stuff.

Nice cool Deep Creek out of reach of the PCT

Slack’s yoga move on the bridge at Deep Creek

Arrived at the bridge over Deep Creek and watered up. There Slack did a yoga move off the rail of the bridge, high over the creek below. Once again confirming his low regard for the implications of risk. Another 5 miles brought me to the hot springs at Deep Creek. They were a good five miles as I had a sweeping conversation with Rocks, a thru hiker in the same chapter and place as me in life. Conversations tend to be very good while hiking, as they are free from intrusion and interruption. One can only walk and listen.

Another bridge over Deep Creek

The Deep Creek Hot springs were quite the dynamic. In any given pool, one would find families, nudists and thru hikers with bad feet sitting side by side. As it was Sunday, the crowds were large and animated.

Then it was back to the North. Foot by foot, until an arrival. The trail climbed high on the canyon wall above Dry Creek. It paralleled an old, forgotten aqueduct. The temperature hovered around 100 degrees.

And then, a scene not predicted. A family sitting in the shade with two large, panting Newfoundland dogs and a new litter of pups. Bizarre and sad, as I don’t think the pups were long for this world due to the heat.

At the canyon mouth, the Mojave River Valley stretched low and far. Deep Creek exited as we did, humiliated by four-wheelers diving through her and over her protected and endangered toads.

Eventually we stopped for the night by a small stream where I write this by headlamp under a half moon.

And, so, I say goodnight.

Steve Halteman
On the Pacific Crest Trail
Hiking the PCT for the Kids of Escuela Verde

The shuttle back to our PCT departing point left at 7:30 a.m. Always back to where we left the PCT. If you’re going to walk the PCT, why skip parts? Before we left, Slack made pancakes mixed with sugar cereal to a startling effect. The shuttle was a ’92 Oldsmobile station wagon with a roof rack. Eighteen legs and nine backpacks crammed in. We made asphalt divots as we left the driveway.

A quick pace carried others and me up the mountain and away from the drop off point. The goal was the first water stop some ten miles away. There, lunch was had on a small wooden bridge spanning a shallow stream. Recent from town, the food was fresh – a vegetable platter and cherries.

The bridge at Deep Creek

From there, the trail descended through a cooked landscape full of tree skeletons. The fire must have been intense as boiled sap was everywhere. Eventually the path landed in a canyon with a flowing large stream. There, I encountered a roofless outhouse replete with a Maxim magazine. Excessive luxury that softens one’s resolve. Also there, I caught up with Doc and his brother John, who had flown in from the wilds of Ohio to hike a section with his big brother.

The stream began to widen due to the industriousness of beavers. Around a corner, we stumbled upon Stupid and Dumbass. Trail names, not descriptions. S&D were hunting and foraging up the PCT. Making their way to Canada while living off the land. Based on their thinness, I’m guessing the pickings had been slim. Their dog, however, looked fairly well for having decided to widen his owner’s narrow definition of foraging to include bumming handouts from other thru hikers. I hope Plan B for S&D included a credit card.

People like S&D bring novelty to the trail and should be applauded. A trail needs human color, like Ron Ulrich, who was sponsored last year by a wedding gown company. He went through twenty-six dresses with trains by the time he reached Canada.

Ron Ulrich hiked the PCT last year in wedding dresses.

Camp was the best spot to date. Many years before someone had built a dam. Of course, it had silted up like all dams in the West. Ironically, a swimming hole had been created on its downstream side. So we swam, had a campfire, roasted marshmallows and strategized on how to replace toilet paper with Assblasters on the PCT next year. An elaborate scheme was hatched to reunite at next years PCT kickoff and distribute Assblasters for free. Vamos a ver, or we will see.

Dreaming of the future is a great and cheap liberty.

Steve Halteman
On the Pacific Crest Trail
Hiking the PCT for the Kids of Escuela Verde

The wind found ways to work its way under my quilt so I woke up cold. Was happy to get moving. The two miles to the highway were a sprint, but the hitch into town proved problematic. Four people hitching seemed more like an ambush than hitch hiking. Luckily we were able to get a hold of Big Bear Hostel who sent out a truck to pick us up.

No beds were ready yet, so Sarge, the ex-Marine manager, suggested a local breakfast feeding establishment. There Orbit took on the breakfast challenge – six hula hoop sized pancakes in under an hour. If successful, which had never happened, you get your picture on the wall and $50 and a day of agony on some couch. My prime in eating contests is long past so I was reduced to coaching. Her gallant efforts collapsed after three pancakes.

Back at the hostel, Sarge checked us in. A 16-year veteran, he had been in too many conflicts, including Beirut in 1983. There he had been blown 30 ft. by the blast that killed 200 plus of his fellow soldiers. Of his original squad of 80 men, only two are alive today. I would guess him to be 50 years old. That is a steep price paid in full.

The day was consumed by the usual in-town chores and errands. I picked up my bounce box and new tent pole. Thank you Z Packs. I am now back in shelter. Cleared the super market out of Couscous which I am now a master chef of. Ate a small school of sushi. Re-watched Scent of a Woman for Al Pacino’s performance. And thought about the ongoing search for a missing day hiker. A man, woman and a dog had gone out for a hike from Big Bear. Only the dog and man had returned. The woman had been missing for three days. I remembered our last cold night of camping. Interestingly, I met the daughter of the returned man while riding the bus. She told his side of the story. Hard to avoid conclusions on my part. Maybe luck will be with her.

Made it to sleep before the drinkers returned.

Tracking Big Bear Lake

Steve Halteman
On the Pacific Crest Trail
Hiking the PCT for the Kids of Escuela Verde

Woke up well and started toward Big Bear Lake. Climbed out of the desert and back into the pines completing a process begun around Mt. San Jacinto many thousands of feet ago. Was in a very good mood and began to wonder why I liked this trail so much in comparison to others. The answer was simple. Other trails begin and end in a measurable period of time. While hiking there is always that nagging thought that in an hour or a day or even a couple of weeks, the end will be reached and you’ll have to go back to life.

The PCT, as least for someone calendar challenged like myself, has no end. Finishing, so many months away, can’t be digested. Which to me, makes it much more than a trail. It elevated the trail to a way of life. A walking road if you will, the finish of no concern. Every day one gets up and moves down the road. Nothing more, Nothing less. Others are doing the same. All footprints point north. Later in the year, a minority of hikers will start at Canada and move south. Like two tides, eventually they will meet. There will be some confusion and then footprints everywhere will reverse direction, to await the next hiking season.

Skeletons

At some point I reined in and took a short nap. Awoke covered in ants. They didn’t seem interested in biting, so I endured for a little while, a curious sensation, but not pleasant.

First bear attack on trail

Had lunch with Slack, Red Beard and Orbit in an abandoned log cabin while nursing my first injury. I had stepped on a rock with my left foot. It promptly flipped up and its sharp edge took a chunk out of my swinging right big toe.

Scars on the land from fire and mining

The cabin was covered in graffiti that is a sad reflection on the human state. Still, I enjoyed the graffiti at Abu Simbel in Egypt. There, Napoleon’s soldiers had spelled out their homesickness on the ceiling of the temple using candle smoke. So I guess there is even hope for graffiti and perhaps the human condition too.

The pace was quick and the gentle downslope into Big Bear was forgiving. The miles flashed by. Some days you walk to think, some days to see and some days to move. Today was the later. Our only speed bumps were the outstanding supply caches left by local businesses to entice hikers. A five star cache reviewed by various rating agencies had reclining lazy boys, chilled carrots and Tiki punch. Big bear Hostel has style.

Reunited lovers

We pulled up two miles before the hitchhiking point into Big Bear, to save on accommodation. Put up camp amongst some windswept Pines where I learned a new trick from Slack. Pinesap burns at an amazing intensity. He said, “try it out.” The couscous was presentable in record time, the night was cold and the wind blew hard. But all was warm under my quilt, NPR faded into dreams and the night took over.

Steve Halteman
On the Pacific Crest Trail
Hiking the PCT for the Kids of Escuela Verde

A sleepless night due to the constant pummeling wind was balanced by the breakfast spread laid out by Ziggy and Bear. This selfless couple moved to Cabazon and bought the closest possible house to the trail solely to provide refuge to hikers during a difficult stretch of the trail. A donation box exists but is never mentioned. They only ask that a postcard is sent if Canada is reached. Bear said that this is a record year for hikers as 600 had passed thru to date, with another 100 expected. I was present when the 600th hiker arrived. He was promptly awarded a Canadian 20 dollar bill Motivation defined.

I left early and began to climb up a canyon past the Mesa wind farm. The sun rose behind the giant wind turbines, their blades daring birds to take a shot at passage. Revolving shadows sliced the trail as I moved upward, serenaded by their strange hum.

Windmills chasing the sun

Crossed a high ridge, saw a striped racer snake, a gopher snake and a zebra tailed lizard. The dropped down into a wide canyon with a genuine flowing stream. Even had a shallow swim then back up and over the next ridge, where I had a curious conversation by renewing my cell phone plan with an operator in India while strolling a remote section of the PCT. Yet another drop into a Cottonwood canyon with stream. Fifteen miles of walking and an ever rising thermometer convinced me and everyone else that passed that way, that shade/lunch was in order.

Skinless tree

One of these doesn’t belong next to the other

Between naps I became convinced that a swimming hole existed on this river because there was a big blue circle on the map. I set out to find it while other stayed in the shade. For 7 miles I crisscrossed the stream to its bitter end with no luck. The best I could do in the 100-degree heat was dunk my hat in the lukewarm water. Nothing wrong with a quest.

Three miles up a dry side canyon developed water concerns which were not to be. A campsite shaded by stubborn Oaks with a stream that ended 200 yards down site was home for the night. Water provides all that is needed in the desert.

Snow Plant

Steve Halteman
On the Pacific Crest Trail
Hiking the PCT for the Kids of Escuela Verde

Our little group ended up sprinkled up and down, an elongated arm connected to Mt. San Jacinto, which stretched for miles. I slept alone at Mile 191 in a strong wind. The glow of Los Angeles looked like an out of control fire. My last thoughts were of two airplanes passing so close that one blotted out the other for a brief second.

Had a look at the map first thing in the morning. The trail dropped thousands of feed to the 10 Freeway. A side note read that it was but four miles to the next water stop on the wings of a crow. Unfortunately human would need to walk 15 miles to reach that same spot. I had 2.5 liters of water. Figured that was enough for a fan of deserts. I walked through thick pines with a goal of creosote bushes.

Pines to…

…Creosote

Shared the trail for a while with Captain. A one-time garbage boat driver on Catalina Island turned editor at Backpacker Magazine. She commented that she was a snake magnet, having seen five rattlers to date. Despite my best efforts I was yet a rattlesnake virgin, which I explained and then quite confidently stated that it was a little late in the day for rattle snakes to be out anyway. Immediately, BAM! A Western Diamondback Rattlesnake exploded next to my leg. I played into the Tijuana two-step waiting for my excited brain to calm down and inform me where the snake was. LEFT! I tangoed right. The snake exited stage left. “Told you,” she said. My dignity returned. Thirty yards later, BAM! This time a baby speckled rattlesnake in a bush. OK. Forty yards and, oh hell, another Speckled crossing the path. Now it was old hat. Didn’t even flinch when a Red Racer snake shot across my bow fifty yards on. (The Red Racers are the fastest snakes in North America at a shocking 5 mph.) Never have I seen such a concentration of snakes on such a hot day. My relief was shameful when I soon after split with Captain, but it did make it safe to proceed. Nor did I see another snake.

Mushroom fallen off pedestal

The desert was endless, shade rare and the temp around 105 degrees. Obviously, the trail designer was paid by the mile, because their switchbacks meandered without descent. Finally arrived at a shadeless tap after 5 hours of walking. Was able to rehydrate the cotton balls in my mouth and contemplate the 5 miles remaining. Orbit and Doc had been waiting and we took off together for a 5-mile jaunt across the frying pan. The target being the fleeing railroad bridge under the 10 Freeway.

Shade under bridge watching trains pass

Arrived, once over easy, to ice cold Mountain Dew left by a trail angel and trains passing overhead. The trains were double stacked, carrying the products of Chine to the end of their 1200-mile distribution.
One more mile through the wind, brought us to Ziggy and Bear’s backyard, trail angels who welcome hikers with a complete embrace. In order: a foot bath, followed by a shower, followed by a Burger King run, topped with an ice cream social and a bed on Arab carpets under the stars. Salaam Alaikum.

Steve Halteman
On the Pacific Crest Trail
Hiking the PCT for the Kids of Escuela Verde